Page 4 of For My Finale
Before Blossom could respond to this, the door jingled open again, and Blossom grinned. Daisy Green, Bankton’s ever-enthusiastic postwoman, bustled in, pink-cheeked from her morning rounds. “Here’s someone that’ll solve your dating problems,” Blossom said to Ives. Daisy was the village Cupid. Or at least she tried to be.
“Blossom,” Daisy called out, making her way over to the counter. “I’ve found her. The perfect woman for you.”
Blossom groaned. “Not again, Daze.”
“Again,” Daisy said, undeterred. Her eyes sparkled with excitement. “She’s lovely. Runs a little florist in the next village over. Sweet, kind, loves dogs.”
“The last blind date you set me up on turned out to be already married. To a man,” Blossom said.
“This one isn’t, I swear,” said Daisy. “You’re wasting your prime years of attractiveness.”
“And you’ll die alone,” said Ives, nodding solemnly. “I keep saying so, don’t I?”
Blossom rolled her eyes. “The two of you should start a support group.” She started an espresso shot just as the dooropened yet again.
This time, there was a whirlwind of scarves and skirts, not to mention a hint of self-importance, as Gloria Cunningham, Bankton’s self-appointed leading lady, swept in. She looked like she might be arriving for a press conference, rather than her normal cappuccino.
“Blossom, darling,” she caroled. “I need you.”
Blossom gave Ives a resigned look before turning to Gloria. “For coffee, I assume?” she asked politely.
“For art!” Gloria declared, clutching her hands to her chest. “For art and poetry and beauty, without which the world would be a faded photo of itself, all in black and white and—”
“Jesus,” Ives said. “Do you want a coffee or not?”
“I want to rehearse,” Gloria said.
“But the Am-Dram Society isn’t doing anything at the moment, is it?” Blossom asked.
Gloria waved a dismissive hand. “Not the point, my dear. Far from it, in fact. One must always be prepared. Now, be a dear and bring me that cappuccino as well as some water for my throat. Then you can help me with this monologue. A Streetcar Named Desire, good old Ten Williams was always a favorite of mine. Of course, I’m a little young to play Blanche, but one must be flexible in these things. Such an iconic role, such an iconic play.”
Blossom was about to protest that she had no time just at the moment, when Gloria struck a pose, her head tilted back, her hand to her heart, and bellowed. “Stelllaaaaa!”
An elderly couple in the far corner of the cafe almost spilled their tea.
Ives, unfazed, sipped at her coffee. “I do love how you bring such a calming presence to the cafe, Gloria.”
“Thank you, darling,” Gloria said, the sarcasm flying so far over her head that it might as well have been interstellar.
“Cappuccino,” Blossom said, passing one over to Ives to pass to Gloria. “And an iced coffee for you, Daze,” she said, sliding one over the counter. “Anything else I can get for anyone?”
There was no time for anyone to answer her question. Thedoor opened again, this time the bell creaked rather than jingled the door was opened with such force. Arty Foster, pub landlord and former journalist, strode in like he owned the place. He had the expression of a man who’d just won a radio quiz show and needed to tell the world about it.
“Arty,” Blossom said. “You’re not often in at this time.”
“Not often up at this time,” Ives said.
“I run a pub,” said Arty. “I have a lot of late nights.”
“And a lot of pints,” said Ives.
“Yeah, well, it’s all part of the image. Can’t be a journo without having a drink problem,” said Arty.
“Nonsense,” Ives said. “You’re perpetuating a stereotype. Plus, you’re not actually a journalist anymore, so you don’t need to be so ridiculous.”
“Speaking of which,” Arty said, sliding onto a stool. “Headline of the decade, right here.” He tapped a folded up newspaper on the counter.
Blossom arched a brow. “Bigger than when Mrs. Fairchild’s goat got stuck in the town fountain?”
